


Up In Flames

by Vyranai



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Bucky is a Firefighter, Crack, Dorks in Love, Firefighter AU, Fluff and Humor, M/M, Romance, Sam has a comic book store, Steve is an artist, and disaster prone
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-15
Updated: 2018-03-15
Packaged: 2019-03-31 17:41:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13980171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vyranai/pseuds/Vyranai
Summary: Bucky is a firefighter who throws himself into every dangerous situation he can find and Steve is really, really bad at cooking. Like painfully bad. Bucky swears he gets more calls to deal with whatever Rogers has put in the microwave or on the stove now than real emergencies. It’s a good job he’s so hot and has an ass to die for.





	Up In Flames

**Author's Note:**

> I love writing AU Stucky. Don't you love writing AU Stucky? Hello everyone and welcome to UP IN FLAMES, a fic where Steve sets fire or destroys more things than you can shake a stick at. He swears that he doesn't mean to, really. I swear this came out funnier than it meant to be, whoops! Anyway, enjoy!

 ‘That pyromaniac in 9A’ they call him.

As far as Steve is aware, a pyromaniac is one who loves playing with fire. He most definitely does not. No, his relationship with fire is… strained on most occasions due to how many he frequently causes. Plus it isn’t like he _deliberately_ sets out to cause the, uh, mostly small disasters within the confines of his apartment. Steve never means to forget the shiny foil on the top of the bowl, or leave the metal fork in the leftovers as he microwaves them. They appear as if by magic. …or courtesy of his often tired and distracted brain.  

He has the fire station on speed dial by now. Who _does_ that?

The tinny sound of a Skype call wakes Steve that morning. With much groaning he drags himself through the dimly lit apartment, switching on the coffee maker with a click as he passes it. A quick glance at the clock reveals it’s just gone seven in the morning.

 _Urgh. Early mornings._ He’s only been asleep a few measly hours.

Steve’s fingers slip upon the Answer button as he aims and misses it the first time. Upon success, Sam’s entirely too cheerful face fills the laptop screen, neatly organized rows of comic books and manga visible in the background. Why the hell is he calling from the shop when it’s not even open for another few hours? “You can’t you wait for a decent hour like most folks?” Steve grumbles, rubbing his stinging eyes with the back of his hand.

“Because you love my face too much.”

“Not at _this_ time of morning. I was awake all night trying to finish up that commission.”

“Uh, you _swore_ that you’d leave it for a night. Wait - did you seriously bullshit me, Rogers? I’m kinda proud.” Sam shoves a bright orange Cheeto into his mouth, crunching loudly. Steve can’t fathom how you can eat something like that at such an early hour. But then… isn’t he the one who eats the weirdest concoctions at the crack of dawn?

Sweet chilli sauce and banana _do_ go together. Steve swears by it.

“I got to the part where I was supposed to draw the other eye.” It’s all Steve needs to say; Sam groans and presses a hand against his forehead in abject horror. It’s the worst thing. The _absolute_ worst.

“Tell me you didn’t ruin the painting.”

“The _whole_ thing.”

“See, _this_ is why you should work digitally; on Photoshop where you have _erasable layers._ And layers. Did I mention layers?”

He’s heard it time and time again from both friends and professionals; _“You’re limited by what you can achieve in the traditional medium, Mr. Rogers. Won’t you at least consider a course in digital instead?” “No thank you, ma’am.”_ Painting with a digital brush doesn’t compare to the real thing, no matter what ‘effects’ you can create on the screen. Plus, does he _really_ want to throw away years of practice and invested money? Maybe he’s stoic and old-fashioned, but Steve prefers it that way. It’s comfortable and he knows what he’s doing like the back of his hand. Even if it doesn’t pay as much.

Until ‘the other eye’ comes into play, at least. That niggly little son of a…

“Well, very early comics didn’t ink their pieces digitally” Steve argues, maybe a little petulantly. “And people appreciate my traditional work.”

“Goddamn it, Rogers, I’m not getting into this discussion of digital vs. traditional again with you. Last time you went off on it for about two hours.” Another crunch of a Cheeto makes Steve wince. He’s fairly certain that Sam is doing it on purpose now. Thankfully the man sets down the accused bag and reaches down beneath the counter, heaving up a heavy brown box that he pats, accompanied by a mischievous grin. “I’ve got something better than debate, anyway.”

In that instant, Steve is fully awake and alert, staring at the screen with wide eyes. “That’s not-?”

Sam whistles innocently as he tugs open the flaps and delves inside, holding the shiny and positively glistening graphic novel by its corner. Steve almost moans at the sight of the bright and bold title of _Valkyrie: Rising_. And in _hardback._ Beautiful, _glorious hardback._ “I hate you right now. Y’know that, yeah?”

“You’re adorable. But I couldn’t give you one until next week, even if I wanted to, sweetcheeks – embargoed to _hell_ I tell you. Was five _long_ assed notes tucked in the box telling me that too. I’m scared to even _touch_ them right now in fear of getting sued seven ways to Sunday and having to get a ‘real’ job.” Sam gingerly lowers the graphic novel until its cover is directly before the camera, allowing Steve to get a long, good look of the black and embossed gold cover. He half wants to reach out and stroke the screen, but that feels weird even to him.

“You’ll set one aside for me?”

Sam places a hand over his heart, thumping it twice. “I shall protect it with my life. If I should fall in battle, my Captain, I swear-”

The fire alarm goes off, high and shrieking. Steve yells and almost falls from his chair in shock, scrambling to turn around as the all-too familiar smell of _burning_ reaches his nose. “No! Not you!” he whines as he throws himself over to the smoking coffee maker, grabbing a tea towel and ignoring Sam’s snigger of “What the fuck have you destroyed now?”

Steve’s fairly certain that he has _the_ worst luck in the entire world when it comes to electrical items, for they hate him with a passion. _Nothing_ lasts more than six months, no matter how careful and considerate he is with them; not the kettle that decided to keep on boiling past the cut off point; not the toaster that preferred to set the bread alight rather than cook it; not the radio that short-circuited and squealed for nearly half an hour before Steve finally managed to thump it into submission.

Perhaps turning the machine off is a better idea than attempting to wrench the accursed thing from the wall, but the thought doesn’t cross Steve’s mind as he promptly panics and _pulls_ on the lead rather than unplugging it in his haste to get it the hell away from his apartment and commissions. It has the opposite effect in causing a small collection of sparks around the back where he can’t see. Then it ignites into a small flame.

And everything goes to hell.

Then the scalding hot coffee falls from the holder and decides to splash across the inside of his bare knee, soaking the line of his shorts; Steve swears so loudly he can almost hear his mother chastising him for his mouth, the coffee maker tumbling to the floor and promptly shattering everywhere in a firework display of glass, coffee and smoking plastic. The only good thing that comes out of the devastating mess upon the grey tiles is the fact the coffee douses the flames before they can take hold.

Steve throws himself over to the fire alarm, wafting it desperately with the tea towel he still clutches within his grasp, teeth gritted against the pain in his knee. He throws open the kitchen window too for good measure, praying for the smoke to get sucked out.

A pounding of fists sounds upon the door, loud and insistent. And very familiar. _“Mr. Rogers?! It’s the FDNY! Open up please if y’don’t want me to break the door down again!”_

He whirls around to find the laptop, eyes wide as he spies Sam sat there with his mobile phone pressed to his ear. “No! You’re not supposed to call them! My _door,_ Sam!” Steve almost squeaks, limping as he moves over to the door as fast as he can and unlocks it in a hurry, his coffee stained fingers slipping on the key. Anything to save the door. _Anything._ “Don’t break it!” he yells desperately, pulling it open.

Steve’s very certain that firemen are not supposed to know their charges by name, but it’s kind of hard when they’re called out to the same disastrous individual so many times. It’s with a look of resignation that Bucky stares at him, arms folded over his chest as it usually is. “What have you destroyed now?” he asks, tone more amused more than anything. Steve spies the familiar form of his partner, Natasha, behind him. She wears an expression to mirror his, flashing Steve a smirk as greeting when he meets her eyes briefly. He dreads what they say about him when they leave. Even worse, what the fire station itself says.

He’s a very handsome man, Bucky. Steve still wonders who the hell names their kid _Bucky_ in this day and age. Tall and dark-haired, imposing even while garbed in his slightly bulky uniform. He’s one of those stereotypical, roguishly gorgeous fire-fighters that you only see on the TV, that’s for sure.

Okay, so maybe Steve doesn’t _always_ dread Bucky’s coming and curse his terribly bad luck. Maybe sometimes he even considers starting a small catastrophe to spend another five minutes with the often charismatic man and his witty partner.

But yeah… illegal and all that. Bummer.

“Coffee maker,” Steve grunts, gesturing behind him half-heartedly. He moves out of the way and allows the pair to step inside. Steve retreats to the sofa and sits down heavily upon it, his knee throbbing painfully.

While Natasha steps over towards the scene of the crime, Bucky removes his helmet crouches down before the couch, sliding his heatproof gloves off into his pocket and taking Steve’s leg in his gentle grip as he inspects the burn closer. “Still got some frozen peas or something?” he asks, setting the leg back down carefully.

“Yeah. You know where they are.” It’s embarrassing but true; Bucky _does_ know his way around the apartment by know. Almost no area has been left unaffected by Steve’s Touch of Death.

Bucky returns moments later with a half-finished bag of frozen fries; Steve yells as the man presses them against the burn on his knee, hissing through his gritted teeth a moment later. “Doesn’t need the hospital, does it?” He doesn’t think it’s a thickness burn if it hurts _this_ much. If one thing Steve’s misadventures have taught him, it’s how burns are graded; pain is a good way to stay out of the hospital and no pain is very bad.

“Nah, you’re good. Just keep the ice on it for now and it’ll heal up fine.” Bucky’s eyes take in just where the burn is located and he winces sharply, letting loose a low whistle. “You’re lucky it wasn’t inches higher. Your hose would be out of business for a long time.”

“It’s okay,” Steve says before he can truly think his words through, “it doesn’t get any use anyway.”

He freezes at the realization of what he’s said truly hits him. _Oh god._

  _Well done Rogers (!) Very well done indeed!_

Steve feels even more pathetic when Natasha barks out a sudden laugh from the kitchen. When he sneaks her a dejected look, she holds up her hands in apology. “Sorry – I just never thought I’d hear something like that from _you_. I’m not laughing.”

 He frowns, wincing as Bucky presses the fries harder to the burn. “Like what, exactly?”

It’s Bucky who replies, chuckling lowly as he reaffirms his grip. “When you _did_ have to go to the hospital, you said ‘fudge’ rather than ‘fuck.’ That’s some strength I don’t think either I or Natasha have.”

“Oh. Well, my Ma was very stringent in her discipline.” Steve shrugged a shoulder. “Devout Catholic.”

Natasha nods to her partner, crouched down and poking through the smoking remains that were once a coffee maker. “Bucky’s mother made him go to Catholic school. I believe they considered bringing the cane back just for him by the end of his first week.”

“Those nuns had _no_ sense of humour.” Bucky shudders slightly, taking Steve’s hand and pressing it to the ice instead. “Hold that there?”

Steve grips the bag of frozen fries like a lifeline against the growing feeling of mortification.

Natasha straightens up, all business once more as she walks over towards the pair. Steve never fails to notice just how beautiful the redheaded woman is when her helmet is removed; surely she can easily be a model, or even an actress? He truly cannot see the allure of this dangerous life over one of safety and security. Both she and Bucky are _entirely_ different people than him, that’s for sure. He likes the quiet and safe, even if they and his household objects don’t like him. “Everything is clear here; the wreckage is safe, as is the outlet now I’ve turned it off and removed the plug. Electrics seem fine also. It’s just your Touch of Death again, Steve.”

“What’s new there?” Steve grumbles, embarrassment flooding him now the adrenaline is wearing off.

Bucky laughs, a low and scintillating sound that makes Steve go crimson. Damn his beautiful face and his intoxicating voice and laugh… “At least you didn’t cover your apartment in foam this time. How long did that take to clean, by the way?”

“Weeks” Steve admits, though very reluctantly. He’d rather forget _that_ incident. “I tasted it for about a month.”

Especially in the mugs.

“Well, until next time?” Bucky pops his helmet back on and thumps Steve twice on the back, a wide smile upon his face once more that makes Steve smile weakly. “Look after that burn and don’t let it get infected.”

The second the pair leave, Steve whines like an injured dog and buries his face into his hands from shame. He’s a walking disaster. Truly. May the ground open up and _swallow_ him.

“Y’know?” Sam’s teasing voice emanates from the laptop, making Steve jump as he remembers he’s actually halfway through a Skype call. “He’s rather pretty. You should ask him to handle your hose in his free time. Just a thought.”

Steve shuffles over to the laptop and places a hand atop it, snapping it shut without a reply.

**Author's Note:**

> Did you like it? Think this chapter should go up in flames also? Leave a comment!


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